


A Definitive Answer  -or-  Ten Times Donald Strachey Asks a Question and One Time He Answers It

by NyteFlyer



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyteFlyer/pseuds/NyteFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald asks a rhetorical question and gives a definitive answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Definitive Answer  -or-  Ten Times Donald Strachey Asks a Question and One Time He Answers It

I hate PDAs almost as much as I hate winter in New York. Timothy Callahan loves them both -- I can tell that much without him having to say a word. Not that he‘s shy about expressing himself. Oh, hell no. I doubt if the guy ever had a thought he didn‘t feel honor-bound to share, which is pretty much fine with me. I‘ve never been worth a damn at polite chit-chat, but I can just sit there and listen like a pro. He keeps up his end of the conversation and most of mine, too, which saves me the trouble of having to sound smarter than I am for his benefit. And you know what? I honest-to-God like hearing him talk. He’s funny in a weird, random kind of way. And his voice…damn. Just fucking damn. 

I get through dinner and a movie okay without doing or saying anything stupid enough to scare him off, which is more than I expect, really, considering I have zilch in the way of experience when it comes to this dating thing. My original game plan was to wine him and dine him, then to get him back to my apartment to work up a good, healthy sweat. But Timmy’s not exactly the kind of guy who hops in the sack with every idiot who takes him out for cheap lasagna and a flick at the second-run theater -- I know that without having to be told, too. Timmy’s the kind of guy who wants to be courted, who wants to feel like sex means more than just a good time between the sheets. 

For the first time in a hell of a long time, I’m starting to wonder if I might be that kind of guy, too. 

So here we are, wandering around the park at midnight, and I don’t know which is falling faster, the temperature or the snow. We aren’t working up much of a sweat out here, that’s for damned sure. I’m freezing my ass off, if you wanna know the truth, but I’m trying to hide it because I don’t want him to think I’m a wimp. A few other couples are out walking, too, all straight and pretty much velcroed together, and all clearly as insane as we are to be out here on a night like this. Some of them shoot us a quick glance as they walk past, but I’m pretty sure none of them see us -- you know. As an us. 

I’m working pretty hard to make sure they don’t. This gay thing, it’s an easy enough fit at the clubs or in the back seat of some random guy’s car, but this is public, we’re out in public, where people can stare and judge and maybe make smartass comments. So I’m being careful as hell to keep a respectable distance between us, not holding hands or anything, even though I’m pretty sure Timmy would like to. 

If nobody else was around, I think I‘d kind of like to, too.

We find a bench and decide to sit for a while, close but not quite touching, and just watch the snow fall. Except we’re watching each other instead, not exactly sure where to take it from here. Timmy’s smiling that shy, sweet smile of his. The only thing shy about the guy is his smile, and damned if it doesn’t do something to make me feel really weird but really good at the same time. Protective. It makes me feel protective, which is a new one for me. It makes me want to take care of him, to fight his battles for him -- not that I think he needs me to, but still. More than anything, it makes me want to touch him. Not in a sexual way, necessarily, though that’s sure as shit out there, too. More in a romantic way, the way people touch each other in movies just as the music swells and the scene fades to black. 

The way he’s watching me, I know that’s what he wants, too. I’ve got this guy’s number, see. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he’s a romantic through and through. He‘s sharp, though, and he‘s probably figured out by now how backward I am about this stuff, so he’s leaving it up to me to make the first move. 

So what the hell. I scoot closer and put an arm around him, then cup his face in my free hand. It’s my first kiss since Kyle, and as different from those frantic, horny attempts to swallow each other’s tongues as night is from day. Another couple walks by, but I barely notice, because Timmy’s lips are soft against mine and warm and so instantly addictive I just want to go on kissing them forever, lost in a sweetness I’ve never known before. 

Finally, we pull apart, both of us kind of shocked, I think, by the intensity of what we just shared. I’m sure as hell not feeling the cold anymore, I can tell you that much. More people approach -- a bunch of young guys horsing around. They’re all elbowing each other and snickering, and one of them makes a remark so nasty it would normally turn my stomach inside out or maybe even tempt me to pound the little shit’s face into hamburger. Instead, I just laugh softly and hold Timmy closer. 

Timmy’s smile is still in place, but it’s starting to look a little forced because I can’t seem to stop laughing long enough to let him in on the joke. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m laughing at him. But how can I explain that I suddenly feel free of something that’s been weighing me down for as long as I can remember, that all the relief and joy and whatever else is going on inside me has to find some kind of release? His lips part, probably because he’s about to ask what’s so freaking funny, but I cover his mouth with my own, and we don’t break for conversation or anything else for a good long time. 

When oxygen deprivation finally gets the best of us, I carefully remove his glasses and stick them in my coat pocket, then lean forward until our foreheads are touching. His eyes haven’t quite glazed over, but they’re pretty damned close. Somehow, he manages to look exhausted and revved and shell-shocked and happy to the point of delirium all at once. 

There aren’t enough words in the English language to describe how I feel. 

“So this is love?” I ask myself as I lick a fat snowflake off the tip of his nose. 

* * * * 

I fucked up. There’s no getting around that one. 

I wake up the afternoon after our second date, hung over and ashamed and so alone it makes my stomach ache. Because he’s a certifiable saint, Timmy took care of me when I got sick and then spent the night, or at least most of it, slipping out at the ass crack of dawn for an early meeting with his boss. Nothing happened, of course. How could it? I was so stupid drunk I couldn‘t have gotten it up if I‘d wanted to. And for the first time in my life, I really didn‘t want to. As corny as it sounds, I want our first time to be better than that, for it to be something special. 

Not that I really believe there’s going to be a first time for us now. Timmy didn‘t kiss me goodbye when he took off, not that I blame him. I know I probably smell like a fucking distillery, and who‘d want to put their mouth anywhere near that? “Go back to sleep,” he said, tucking the covers around my shoulders the way Grammy Rosa did when I was a little kid. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

If he has any sense, he’ll never speak to me again.

I find a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the cupboard and pour myself a double. Hair of the dog and all that. My mouth tastes a little better afterwards, but the rest of me still feels like shit. A shower would probably help, but I don’t have the energy for it. 

It was only our second date. It’s not like I have anything invested in the guy, right? God knows I’m not the relationship type, so why should I care if it‘s over before it really begins? But when I think of never hearing his voice again or holding his hand in mine, not tasting his smile or smelling his cologne or seeing those cornflower blue eyes crinkle at the corners behind glasses that look geeky and sexy at the same time, I do care. I care so fucking much that the pain of it drowns out the heavy metal drummer who’s pounding away inside my skull. Almost.

“So this is love?” I wonder, wincing as I nurse my throbbing head.

* * * *

I head into the men’s room, half drunk and needing to piss. I take care of business at the urinal and start to head back to the bar for another round when the lanky redhead I’ve been eyeballing all night sidles up to me and grabs my crotch. We’re not exactly strangers, Red and me, and we’ve played this game a couple of times before. 

My head’s swimming from the five or six shots I’ve knocked back, and that -- combined with the pounding techno music and the overwhelming cloud of testosterone-rich sweat mixed with amyl nitrate that permeates the place -- has my dick performing on auto-pilot. Red pulls me into a cubicle and drops to his knees, fumbling at my fly. He’s sloppy drunk, and from the way he’s acting, probably high on something a helluva lot stronger than poppers, too. I can practically hear his brain cells self-destructing, not that it matters. The last thing I’m interested in is the guy’s mind.

Before I know it, I’m hard as a rock, shoving him back just long enough to deal with the zipper myself and slip on a condom. I close my eyes and brace myself against the cold metal of the stall door, hear him moan in expectation, maybe moan a little myself.

As his mouth closes on my cock, my eyes fly open, and I look down at all that red hair. It’s the wrong color, the wrong texture, just plain wrong. My gorge rises. I shove Red away and start puking my guts up as he scrambles to get out of the line of fire. 

I haven’t had the guts to call Timmy since our second date and he’s probably forgotten I even exist, but I’m still so fucked up I can’t even enjoy a little no-strings head without going to pieces. And the scary thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy it again. 

“So this is love?” I groan between waves of nausea, wanting to kick myself. 

* * * *

Timmy walks out of the bathroom naked, not strutting, exactly, but with nothing bashful about him except for that smile. 

I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in all my life. 

This night’s been a long time coming, and the last thing I want to do is rush it. We walk into each other’s arms and just stand there, nuzzling and cuddling, trading soft, deep kisses as if we’ve got all the time in the world before us. I’m almost scared to hope that maybe, just maybe, we do.

For the first time since Kyle, I really want to please someone, to give instead of take, to make him feel every bit as good as he looks. I stretch out on the bed and draw Timmy down beside me, cradling him in my arms, worshiping every inch of that long, lean body of his with my lips and tongue, my mouth and hands, and with every scrap of feeling left in my heart. “Beautiful,“ I whisper. “So beautiful.“ I slowly kiss and nip and lick my way down his happy trail, rub my cheek against the soft, dark hairs on his belly, smell his smell, wallow in his warmth. 

“So this is love?” I murmur, taking his bobbing cock into my mouth.

* * * *

I can’t get rid of my last client in time to pick Timmy up at work, but at least I’m able to meet his bus so he won’t have to walk the last few blocks alone. It’s a nice night, and I’m thinking we can stop by the corner deli for turkey subs and maybe a couple of slices of their homemade pecan pie on the way back to his place. But when it‘s Timmy‘s turn to get off the bus, the next guy in line jostles him from behind. Timmy’s foot slips off the bottom step, and he barely grabs the handrail in time to keep from falling. “Fucking faggot,” the guy mutters, shoving his way past. 

I lurch forward, knowing damned well that if I get my hands on that prick I’ll be facing murder charges, and that’s just A-okay with me. But Timmy regains his balance and closes a hand on my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. I’m not sure which shocks me more, knowing I’m willing to face a life sentence at Attica for ripping some douchebag’s heart out and shoving it up his ass because he pushed my boyfriend and called him a fag, or the fact that Timmy has the power to hold me back with just a touch when I’m as mad as I’ve ever been in my whole fucking life.

“So this is love?” I seethe, clenching my fists so hard they ache.

* * * *

I’m a slob. I’ve known that particular fact about myself for a long time now. It‘s not exactly a secret as far as Timmy‘s concerned, either, but that doesn’t keep him from looking horrified as he watches me scoop a pile of dirty clothes off the bathroom floor and haul it toward the laundry room. I hear his footsteps following behind me at what I’m sure he considers a safe distance.

“I said I’d do it,” I snap. Still, he hovers over me, handing over a sock I dropped and clicking his tongue like a disapproving aunt as I separate the lights from the darks. When I set the water temperature to “hot” he makes a distressed sound, and I quickly switch the dial to “warm” instead and pour in the detergent. Apparently satisfied, he walks away.

“So this is love?” I grumble, wondering if he‘ll leave me alone now so I can watch the rest of the game in peace. But I remember to add the fabric softener, all the same.

* * * *

I never listen to the radio when I’m driving, but for some reason I turn it on today. Like the rest of my car, the sound system’s not worth shit, but I catch snatches of a breaking news report between spurts of static. 

The bottom drops out of my world. 

A few minutes ago, someone fired off a round at Timmy’s new boss, Senator Glassman, as she addressed a group of students at Saint Rose. She’s uninjured, but one of her aides isn’t so lucky. He’s being rushed to Albany Memorial, the reporter states in the same perky tone she’d use to update traffic information or predict the weather. His name’s being withheld, pending notification of kin.

Pending notification of kin.

In less than a heartbeat, I’m speed-dialing Timmy’s number. He doesn’t pick up, and that feeds my fear. I toss my cell onto the seat and do a U-turn, nearly taking out a couple of jaywalkers in business suits, not that I care. All I care about is the growing panic inside me, and the knowledge that if Timmy’s dead, I might as well be, too.

My phone chirps, and I snatch it up again and flip it open. The text message consists of three words -- the only three words in the whole English language I give a damn about seeing at this moment in time. 

It wasn’t me.

The phone slips from my hand and hits the floorboard, disappearing under the seat. Somehow, I manage to pull over before I lose it completely. I bang my head on the steering wheel, pound my fists on the dash, choking and cursing as I bawl like a fucking baby. I know Timmy has to be taking this hard. I know I need to get it together, to text him back and tell him I’m on my way. He has to know that he can lean on me, that I’ll be by his side to help him deal with the loss of a colleague, maybe even somebody he counts as a friend. But for now, all I can do is clutch that steering wheel and cry. In less than a minute, my life has been taken away from me and given back, and it’s too much, just too goddamned much to bear.

“So this is love?” I gasp between sobs.

* * * * 

Me, nervous? Hardly. 

Scared shitless is more to the point. 

It’s Sunday afternoon, and Timothy’s mom is driving up for a late brunch. We’ve talked on the phone and she seems nice enough. We’ve even waved and smiled at each other a couple of times over Timmy’s webcam. But we’ve never met before. Not met met. Not in person.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Moving in together is one thing, but I’m just not the tea-and-crumpets-with-somebody’s-mommy-on-a-Sunday-afternoon kind of guy. I don’t do polite chit-chat. I don’t do any kind of chit-chat. I make a really shitty first impression. What if she doesn’t like me? What if she hates me? What if she calls Timmy afterward and says something that’ll finally bring him to his senses? 

I haven’t been this freaking terrified since Timmy pulled that little black notebook out of his pocket and started taking notes on our second date.

I finish vacuuming the living room rug just as the doorbell rings. “Honey, can you get the door for me?” Timmy calls from the kitchen, where he’s busy churning out enough tea and crumpets to feed a Third World country. Or maybe he’s just making coffee and putting the finishing touches on that sausage and egg casserole I like so much. Who the hell knows? For that matter, who the hell cares? My stomach’s tied in so many knots I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again.

I make a half-assed attempt to wrap the power cord before shoving Timmy’s new Kirby into the closet. He spent more on that damned sweeper than I did on my car. Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. The doorbell rings a second time. “Honey?” he calls again. 

I force myself to walk to the door. This is stupid. The way I’m acting is just stupid. I pause for a moment, close my eyes, take a deep breath. The bell rings a third time and Timmy calls my name. Both are starting to sound pretty pissed off.

“So this is love?” I mutter, turning the doorknob with a not-quite-steady hand. 

* * * *

The longer Timmy and I are together, the better the sex gets. Like any couple, we have our quickies, our sleepy grope sessions at two a.m, our get-our-rocks-off-and-get-to-sleep moments. Most of the time, though, there‘s a hell of a lot more to it than that. And nine times out of ten, it‘s because Timmy makes it that way. 

Tonight he‘s in a creative mood, and he tries something we‘ve never done before. It takes me by surprise and sends me over the edge so hard and fast I‘m not sure whether I‘m dying or being reborn. Maybe a little of each. Afterward, I’m wiped out and done in, ready to call it a night. But after a moment’s breather, his hand cups my balls, and I realize part of me, at least, isn’t nearly as tired as I thought. 

“So this is love?“ I growl in his ear, prepping myself for the second round. 

* * * *

It’s our six month anniversary, and I promised I’d be home by 6:00 at the latest. 

Correction: it was our anniversary. Now it’s three in the morning, and here I am, dragging my bone-weary, battered and bloody ass up the two flights of stairs to our apartment because the fucking elevator picked this night of all nights to break down. My gun disappeared around the time the guy with the baseball bat finished tenderizing my head like a slab of fresh meat, and my cell phone and car keys disappeared right along with it. Tell ya what, two and half miles is a helluva long way to walk in the freezing rain when you can’t see thanks to the blood in your eyes, can’t breathe thanks to the blood clogging your nose, and everything from your neck up has just been reduced to extra lean ground round. I would’ve sprung for a taxi, but no cabbie in his right mind would pick up somebody who looks like me on the wrong side of town in the middle of an ice storm in the middle of the night. Besides, somewhere between Babe Ruth hitting a home run on my skull and he and his girlfriend taking turns kicking me in the ribs, I seem to have lost my wallet as well.

I’m really hoping Timmy has long since written me off as a lost cause and gone to bed, but no such luck. He must be pulling an all-night stake-out in the living room and listening for my footsteps in the corridor, because before my hand even touches the knob, the door flies open and he glares at me. Then he takes in my gore-fest of a face and the combination of ice and frozen blood spiking my hair. Without saying a word, he pulls me close, cradling me gently in his arms as if he’s scared hugging too hard might actually make me break.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his lips warm against my frigid skin. “Oh, baby.” 

Something’s definitely cracking -- I can hear it -- but it’s just the quarter-inch layer of sleet covering the tattered remains of my coat. I try to tell him I’m sorry, but my teeth won’t stop chattering.

Timmy gets us both inside and locks the door, then peels off my crunchy coat and leaves it to melt on the living room floor. Then he leads me to the bathroom where he starts running a hot bath. He tells me to get undressed, but my fingers are so numb I can’t seem to move them anymore. He undresses me himself, easing me out of my clothes and sucking in a sharp breath when he takes in the bruises on my chest and sides, the gash on my right knee, the nasty cut just below my left clavicle. 

“Oh, baby,” he says again. “You need a doctor.”

“No,” I tell him, though I’m shaking so hard I doubt if he can make out a word I’m saying. “I don’t want…I just need….”

He shushes me and somehow gets me into the warm water, supporting my weight as he manually lifts first my left leg and then my right over the edge of the tub and forces me to sit, because the world’s gone dark and fuzzy, and my limbs don‘t feel like they‘re connected to me anymore. Once I’m more or less settled, he disappears, leaving me bereft. With him gone, it feels like I’m alone in the ice storm again. I hunch forward, trying to get as much of my body underwater as I can. Everything hurts. A couple of minutes later, he reappears with the first aid kit in one hand and a steaming blue mug in the other. When he holds the mug to my lips, I taste coffee, bitter and stale, like it’s been sitting on the warmer all night. It feels good going down, though, hot and strong, and once I get my hands working again, I take it from him and sip it slowly.

I still can’t seem to stop shaking. 

Leaving the first aid kit on the vanity, he strips and joins me in the tub. The water’s red and so disgusting looking I’m surprised he’s willing to get in with me. He doesn’t so much as flinch, though, just opens the drain and lets some out, then starts refilling it with fresh, gradually increasing the temperature until it’s as hot as I can stand it. He fusses with the shower curtain, pulling it closed to keep the steam in. When I finish the coffee, he takes the mug from me and sets it aside, then reaches for a washcloth and starts tentatively dabbing the blood off my face. I realize he hasn’t asked what happened. Maybe he figures he’s better off not knowing. Or maybe seeing me in this kind of shape tells him all he needs to know.

My teeth finally stop chattering, but I‘m still shaking so hard the water sloshes, and in spite of the shower curtain, I‘m sure some of it must be running onto the floor. 

“Aren’t you mad at me?” I know how pathetic I gotta sound, but I’m past caring. 

“Oh, no. Oh God, baby, no.” He drops the washcloth and scoots closer, wrapping his arms and legs around my body, guarding me from phantom attackers like a living shield. I hear him gulp back something that sounds like a sob. “I’m just so glad you’re home.” Tears well in his eyes, and it hits me harder than a baseball bat to the skull -- those tears are for me. As far as I can tell, nobody’s ever shed a tear over me before. 

“So this is love?” I whisper, filled with wonder, as he gently kisses my swollen lips.

* * * *

Another Saturday night, another boring political function. Hazards of the trade, as Timmy would say, when you’re married to a New York senator’s chief aide. Still, I bitch and moan the way I always do, while Timmy rolls his eyes and threatens me with domestic violence. These verbal brawls of ours are purely recreational, of course, though you can’t expect casual observers to understand that. Needless to say, that’s half the fun.

I get the feeling somebody’s staring at us, and sure enough, it’s a high-priced lawyer named Edward D’Arcy. I’ve had dealings with the guy a time or two over the past couple of years, though hardly in a business capacity. I know he has a wife at home, plus a couple of teenaged kids and an older son in medical school, but that doesn’t stop him from playing around with boys on the side. The last time he offered, I’d just moved in with Timmy, and my playing around days were done. I turned D’Arcy down politely at first, then not so politely when he didn’t seem to catch the hint. He didn’t handle the rejection particularly well, as I recall.

Now he’s sauntering toward us, wearing a patronizing smirk I’d really love to wipe off his face for him. But I’m in the brand new monkey suit Timmy made me buy -- not just rent, but honest-to-God buy -- and he’d probably kill me if I messed it up while physically assaulting this pompous-assed ambulance chaser at his la-ti-da fundraiser. So I just stand my ground and smirk right back. 

“So this is love?” ol’ Eddie asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. He gives Timmy a long, condescending look clearly calculated to make my blood boil. 

In another place and time, I would’ve cleaned his clock for him right then and there. But this is here and this is now, and I sure as hell don’t want to embarrass my honey. So I just look at Timmy and he looks at me, and we smile and lace our fingers together. As I raise his hand to my lips and kiss it with every ounce of tenderness in me, my eyes lock on Ed‘s.

“You bet your ass it is,” I say.


End file.
